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Claire looked into the mirror on the wall. Pearl thread looked at a thin neck so beautiful that it would be a pity to part with it. Claire remembered a nostalgic comparison – the pearls are a treasure left from the deceased oyster, the testimony of its death.

Who told her about it?

Claire frowned. Someone spoke. But who? And when? The memory eluded, as if she was whining with drugs.

Who among her friends could have given such words? She figured out them without herself. Pearl! Death! Pearls – evidence of death!

Where did she hear it?

An attempt to remember was too painful. In memory, as if some kind of door slammed. It was almost physically hurt from the fact that consciousness tries to overcome some irresistible barrier.

Claire thought that in vain she did not drink and did not smoke.

Now she terribly wanted to sleep, but the prospect of seeing a new nightmare prevented her to close her eyes. The eyelids were poured, the head was split, but Claire decided to distract herself with something. She took an album and a pencil. It was better to make an outline of coal, but the pencil was the first thing that was near of her hand.